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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053116">The Land of the Living</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdr_24601/pseuds/mdr_24601'>mdr_24601</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arena (Hunger Games), District 13 (Hunger Games), F/M, POV Finnick Odair, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Capitol (Hunger Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:21:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,626</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdr_24601/pseuds/mdr_24601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you knew what Finnick's been through the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is he's still with us at all."</p><p>Well, that last part was debatable. He hasn't been with them for a long time. On the bad days, it feels like he'll never really be with them again. </p><p>(Of course, he was wrong about a lot of things.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annie Cresta &amp; Mags &amp; Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Mags &amp; Finnick Odair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Land of the Living</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something wrapped around his wrist. Finnick only noticed it because it wasn’t familiar. The heaviness of his eyelids and the cottony feeling of his mouth; well, it wasn’t like he’d never dealt with drugs before. But the thing on his wrist, whatever it was, was flimsy and paper-like, only he wasn’t aware enough to tell exactly what it was. The throbbing headache pulsing at his temples told him that lifting his head was out of the question. </p><p>It wasn’t the golden bangle from the arena and it wasn’t the rope bracelet from home. (<em>Annie, </em>his mind whispered at the mention of home, but the thought melted away before he could dwell on it.) </p><p>Voices floated around him, and Finnick caught only some of it; pieces of sentences, monotone voices droning on about something, and was that crying? </p><p>District Thirteen hadn’t been the most welcoming of places, not that he’d been lucid long enough to know. The hovercraft must have landed at some point because he couldn’t hear the whirring of the engine anymore. His fingers flexed and the thing on his wrist crinkled audibly. </p><p>His eyes cracked open just enough to see out of. Blurred gray shapes walked around and footsteps shuffled closer to his bed. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” a voice asked, but Finnick only cared about one thing. </p><p>He didn’t have the energy to say anything, so he just let his eyes fall shut again. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>He was eight the first time he thought about it. Really thought about it, that is. Any child could tell you that once you stood on the reaping stage, you weren’t coming back, at least not the same. But Finnick was eight when he thought about what that really meant.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Will it happen to me?” he asked his brother as they stood in the water, which rippled around their ankles. He was tired, and the sun was hot, and they hadn’t seen any fish for minutes (felt like hours, though). It was a test in his patience, his dad had told him earlier that day. Finnick was horrible at waiting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Be quiet,” his brother said. “You’ll scare the fish away.” Fourteen years old and he thought he knew everything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finnick sighed. “The fish are already gone. Will it happen to me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This time, his brother faced him, narrowing his eyes. “Will what happen to you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know,” Finnick said. “The reaping.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something in his brother’s expression shifted, his knuckles turning white around his spear. “No,” he replied shortly. “No, it won’t.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why not? How do you know? It can happen to anyone, right?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Someone will volunteer,” his brother said. He shoved his spear in the water which Finnick thought was stupid because there weren’t even any fish around. “You won’t go into the arena, okay? Let’s just focus on the fish.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Maybe I’ll volunteer when I’m old enough,” he declared. “I can train, you know. I’m really fast.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His brother frowned. “Maybe you shouldn’t be making those kinds of decisions right now. Let’s wait until you’re a little older, okay?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay,” Finnick said, staring down into the murky water. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>(He didn’t wait.)</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“My name is Finnick Odair. I’m from District Four.” Talking around the constant lump in his throat had proven to be quite difficult, but the doctors were patient with him. He wanted to scream until his vocal chords gave out that they should be helping Annie, not him. Get her out of there. Who cared whether or not he could recite his name and District?</p><p>"Good,” the doctor said. He’d said his name but Finnick had forgotten, and it was already too late to ask again. “Let’s talk, Finnick. Whenever you’re ready.”</p><p>“About what?” his scratchy voice responded. It was low and gravelly, but not in the intentional, seductive way like it was in the Capitol. It was the result of too much screaming and not enough rest. It didn’t sound like him. </p><p>Or maybe he sounded more like himself than he ever had. It was hard to tell these days. The bracelet, reading <em> Mentally Disoriented </em>in block letters, crinkled around his wrist as he tied knots.</p><p>“We can talk about anything you want. Why don’t you tell me about Mags?”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Finnick was exactly eight and a half years old when he knocked on Mags’ door in Victors’ Village. Mags was the oldest living Victor in Four, so surely she could teach him about the arena. The door swung open with a gentle creak and Mags stood in the doorway, warm light spilling out onto the porch.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hello,” she said, voice soft. She looked older in person than on television, but that only made Finnick like her more. “Can I help you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes.” He straightened his shoulders so he looked taller. “My name is Finnick Odair. I want to train with you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mags waited a moment before stepping aside. “Come in, then.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The house was cozy and warm. It had a certain lived-in quality about it that made Finnick feel comfortable. “So, when can we get started?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“First lesson,” she began, looking at him with wary eyes, “is to know exactly what you’re getting into before the danger begins.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finnick frowned. “I thought we were going to practice weapons and stuff.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You can’t practice weapons until you know why you’re doing it.” Mags sat down on the couch and poured them both steaming mugs of tea. “So, tell me, Finnick Odair. Why are you here?”</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>District Thirteen provided little opportunity for leisure, but apparently rules didn’t apply to mentally disoriented people. Finnick wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital, so his entire day practically consisted of lying in bed with the occasional walk around the dreary gray hallways. His lungs ached for fresh air constantly. The air of Thirteen, meticulously filtered as it was, still had a stale quality about it. </p><p>Beetee visited him, so that was something. He was another victor, somebody who understood, and that meant everything. “How are you doing?” he asked nervously from his wheelchair. </p><p>“Annie’s in the Capitol.” Perhaps it didn’t answer Beetee’s question, but if he minded, he didn’t show it. The words <em> Annie’s in the Capitol </em>pretty much summed up exactly how he was doing. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Beetee said. “But at least you can be certain that she’s alive.”</p><p>He said it like it was a good thing, but Finnick wasn’t entirely certain. “I wish she weren’t alive. I wish none of us were.”</p><p>Beetee didn’t say anything about that. He only reached out his hand and patted him on the knee awkwardly. “They’ll get her out of there. They’ll have to, if they want you to cooperate.”</p><p>“Like they got Mags out?” The words were scathing and Johanna would be proud, but Beetee didn’t even flinch. Instead, he looked at him with sad eyes, voice grave. </p><p>“I’m sorry about that, too.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Mags’ house was warm and comfortable and soon became one of Finnick’s places in the whole District. He was nine and three quarters, almost ten years old. He could throw a spear and tell poison berries from regular berries and climb a tree without making a sound. But he still couldn’t throw a trident. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“When you’re ten,” Mags had told him almost one year ago. “That’s when I’ll teach you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Then I won’t have enough time to learn,” he had protested. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Eight years is plenty of time.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mags was sitting on her porch swing when he arrived one hot morning. “Good morning,” she greeted him with a smile. “Go get settled inside, I’ll join you in a moment.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What are we doing today?” Finnick asked. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Watching tapes.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finnick pouted. Watching tapes wasn’t as exciting as weapons or combat training, and Mags knew it. “Do we have to?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s like I told you before,” she said as they walked into the house. “You have to know what you’re facing before you face it. It’s important to be prepared for any situation.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And the tapes will help?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her eyes sparkled when she smiled, and Finnick felt proud to have been the one to make her smile like that. “Yes, the tapes will help.”</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>They started having him do propos. Little segments at first, nothing strenuous. He saw Katniss occasionally, and she didn’t look much better than he did. He could guess that the dark bags under her eyes matched his own, because sleep was becoming more evasive by the day.</p><p>If he wasn’t filming, he was tying knots in the hospital, waiting and waiting for any news. </p><p>Finnick had always been horrible at waiting.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>When the day finally came, he hadn’t known. Finnick was fourteen and he could throw a trident better than anyone else he knew. Fourteen and could identify ten different types of knives and how to use them. Fourteen and knew that nobody made it out the same. Mags had been careful to warn him. Didn’t want him getting in over his head, she had said. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Really, though, he knew what he was doing. He had the best mentor out there, after all. Besides, failure was not an option. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The reaped kid was a scrawny twelve year old boy. Finnick’s hand shot up. “I volunteer!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On the stage, he could see his brother’s face, pinched tight with tension. He wanted to tell him not to worry, that it would all be okay. He knew what he was doing. Besides, that kid was a child. District Four’s chances of bringing home a victor that year were raised exponentially by his volunteering. The kid likely wouldn’t have made it, anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>(In hindsight, he should have known that fourteen year olds didn’t know everything.)</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>The propos in District Thirteen were nothing like the Flickerman interviews in the Capitol, but they still had the remarkable ability to feel completely alike. Maybe it was because he was still acting, albeit for a different reason, but performing nonetheless. </p><p>“That’s good, Finnick,” Plutarch said, eyeing him with a smile. “Let’s just try that again, with a different inflection this time.”</p><p>They rolled the camera. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>“Now, Finnick.” Caesar Flickerman placed a hand on his knee. It was probably supposed to be comforting, but the gesture felt more invasive than anything else. “No fourteen year old has ever won the Games before. How do you feel about that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, that doesn’t concern me,” he said with a laugh. Cool and nonchalant, just like they’d practiced. “I’m not like most fourteen year olds.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The crowd went wild with laughter, and Finnick did his best to avoid wincing at the sheer volume. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“There you are,” Beetee greeted him from where he was seated at his weaponry desk. “I’m assuming Katniss sent you?”</p><p>Finnick nodded. “She said you had a trident for me.”</p><p>“She’d be correct, then.” After a few moments, Beetee held out a sleek black trident. It seemed to mold to his touch, feeling so natural that it may as well have been an extension of his arm. </p><p>He explained the functioning of all the parts, but Finnick would be lying if he said he got all of it. “Want to give it a try?”</p><p>Finnick grinned and threw it into the nearest target. It hit the center with the satisfying metallic <em> thwump </em>and something in his heart lightened. It didn’t feel like holding a trident in the arena. It felt like being on the cusp of ten years old, waiting anxiously for the day when Mags would finally teach him. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>His trident was slick with blood but Finnick kept going. His shoulder ached from an old knife injury, courtesy of District Two. District Two was a formidable opponent; they had been from the beginning. The final battle was bloody and Finnick briefly wondered if cleaning the blood from the prongs of the trident would be too difficult. </em>
</p><p>No fourteen year old has ever won the Games before<em>, he could recall Caesar Flickerman saying. </em></p><p>
  <em>Well. There was a first time for everything, wasn’t there?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His trident made an odd squelching sound as it impaled the District Two girl, his last remaining opponent. Finnick watched distantly as she crumpled to the ground, eyes wide with horror and blood gurgling from her mouth. He looked away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The victory trumpets blared as they announced his name, and Finnick raised his bloody trident in the sky. It was supposed to be a triumphant moment. He had made history, after all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He threw up when he boarded the hovercraft. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He’s in shock,” the Capitol doctors explained. “It happens often with victors.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His hands didn’t release the trident even when they operated on his injured shoulder. Mags reached him, finally, and he hid his face in her hair. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You did good,” she whispered into his ear. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“They’re sending soldiers to the Capitol,” Plutarch said. Finnick’s heart leapt in his throat. <em> Annie. </em>“We need something riveting to distract them.”</p><p>“Okay,” Finnick said, eyes snapping into focus. “I have something.”</p><p>They set up the camera and he sat up straight. Sitting in front of a camera and preparing to speak had gotten old years ago, but this time was different. </p><p>“President Snow used to sell me. My body, that is.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>The noise of the party pulsed around him, the sound and the color bleeding together into one giant mass of energy. Finnick’s head throbbed, he was pretty sure someone had given him something. Or he had taken something, but that was less likely, because he had a client that night. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His skin crawled at the thought. Finnick was sixteen but sometimes he wished he was fifty, because maybe then they would lose interest. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It felt like he could give the Capitol every piece of himself and they still wouldn’t be satisfied. They wouldn’t stop wanting more even when he had nothing more to give. </em>
</p><p><em>Somebody pressed a drink in his hands. </em>No more<em>, his body said, but he accepted it anyway. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Dance with me, Finnick,” a female voice said as a girl slid up to him. He danced, because what other options were there? He wanted the sea and he wanted Mags and he wanted home. Instead, he just danced with some girl at some party. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not that it mattered very much. The party would be nothing but a blurry haze of memories that were hastily strung together in the morning. Somebody put their hands on his waist, fingers trailing down his hips. Bile rose in his throat. Finnick felt repulsed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Excuse me, ladies,” he said to the crowd that had accumulated. “I just want some fresh air for a moment.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gulped deep breaths of the cool night air before joining the party again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“They’re back.”</p><p>The words buzzed in his brain on repeat until he couldn’t think, couldn’t move. <em> They’re back, they’re back, they’re back.  </em></p><p>Katniss took his hand and led him down the hallway. His feet shuffled uselessly beneath him and his mind was elsewhere, on Annie and her smile. </p><p>“Finnick!”</p><p>And there she was, in his arms, tears dripping onto his shirt. “Annie,” he said, hardly trusting the words to come out right. They hit a wall and sank to the floor, just holding each other and crying. “Annie."</p><p>“I missed you,” Annie said, eyes watery. “I love you.”</p><p>“I love you, too,” he said, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>“First rule of mentoring,” Haymitch Abernathy said, walking up to his console in the Mentors’ Lounge. “Don’t fall in love with your tributes.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Somebody laughed behind him, but Finnick didn’t look to see who it was. “I don’t plan on it,” he replied coolly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And don’t let them fall in love with you,” Haymitch continued, laughing a little. “You’re basically as young as the tributes, Odair, and these things happen. Just save yourself the trouble and don’t get attached.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He walked away, back to his own empty console to watch the countdown. Finnick turned to Mags, who sat beside him, a steady anchor. “You got attached to me, didn’t you? And that turned out okay.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mags’ eyes were sad. “You know I love you. But Haymitch is right. It’s best not to get too attached.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I think you know why, boy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The camera flitted to District Four’s Annie Cresta, long brown curls piled high in a bun on her head. Her eyes scanned her surroundings and Finnick felt himself lean forward in his seat. </em>
</p><p>Don’t get too attached to your tributes. </p><p>
  <em>Well, Finnick was pretty sure he’d failed that one. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“I’m so glad you’re here,” Finnick said as he and Annie laid on his bed. It was a single bed, but they managed just fine. Anything was better than weeks apart. “You’ll get used to Thirteen eventually.”</p><p>Annie hummed. “I don’t care where we are. I’m just glad to be with you.”</p><p>He pressed a light kiss to her forehead. He didn’t ask about the Capitol and she didn’t bring it up, so he assumed that the subject was touchy. Finnick didn’t talk much about his own time in the Capitol, either, no matter how much it felt ingrained into his skin. </p><p>“We’ll get home,” Finnick said. “We’ll get there. We just have to wait this out a little longer.”</p><p>“You think everything will be okay then?” she asked, doubt creeping into her voice. </p><p>“Not right away. But at least it has the chance to be.”</p><p>“Good.” A pause then, “When we get home, I want to marry you.”</p><p>Finnick’s heart felt like it might burst out of his chest. “That sounds like everything I ever wanted.”</p><p>“Me, too,” Annie agreed. She sighed and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m tired.” Her voice was muffled and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. </p><p>“Go to sleep,” he whispered into her hair. </p><p>“You’ll still be here when I wake up?”</p><p>He kissed the crown of her head gently. “I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>“Male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finnick choked on something and there was a split second of silence before Annie screamed, shrill and desperate. He reached for her and pulled her close, tears sliding down her face. “It’s okay,” he said softly, even though everything was the opposite of okay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had only been days ago that they talked about getting married. Just days ago, they sat in this very living room and planned out clothing and flowers and location. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing ever went according to the plan. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You won’t be going back in,” Mags said, eyes steely. “I won’t let them take both of you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Annie cried, and Finnick looked at her. “What are you saying?” he asked, voice grave. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll volunteer. If Annie is reaped, and you know she will be, I’ll take her place.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mags, I—” the words stuck in his throat and his eyes welled with tears. “I can’t ask you to do that.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re not asking,” she said. “I’m doing it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could tell that that was the end of the conversation, but nothing felt resolved. His heart had been torn in half and there was nothing he could do about it. Either he lost Annie or he lost Mags. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Promise me one thing,” Mags said, reaching for his hands. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His throat was dry, and the word came out as more of a croak. “Anything.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You make it out of there, you take Annie somewhere safe, and you get married.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finnick felt a tear slip down his face but he made no move to wipe it away. “We’ll save you a seat.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hope was futile, and they both knew it, so Mags only smiled softly. “I look forward to it.”</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“I can’t believe we did it,” Annie beamed at him, looking happier than he’d ever seen her. Her wedding dress brought out the green in her eyes, which were bright and happy. “It feels like a dream.”</p><p>He pulled her in for a kiss. “Best dream I’ve ever had, then.”</p><p>Thirteen wasn’t the ideal wedding location, but really, any location was ideal as long as Annie was there. Sparse decorations lined the room, with chairs set up towards the front. Nobody tried to stop them when they saved a seat for Mags in the front row. </p><p>“I love you,” Annie said as they swayed to the music. She laughed a little. “I’m never not going to love saying that.”</p><p>“I love you, too.” He spun her around and her dress fanned out at her ankles, like a miniature green sea. “Mrs. Odair.”</p><p>“It’ll be fine, you know,” she said a moment later. “If we can get married, we can do anything. We’ll be safe now.”</p><p>“Good,” Finnick grinned. “I’m glad. You deserve it.”</p><p>“So do you. So did Mags."</p><p>“She knew what she was doing,” he said. Wasn’t that what Mags always told him? To know what you were doing before diving headfirst? “She wanted us to have this opportunity.”</p><p>“I know,” Annie said, eyes downcast. “I’m just sorry she never got to see it.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” he asked, lifting her chin up gently. “I’m sure she’s looking down on us right now thinking about how beautiful you look in your dress.”</p><p>She gave him a watery smile. “No, she’s not. She’s laughing because you ate two pieces of cake even though she told you not to.”</p><p>“Oh, she used to tell me that all the time as a kid,” he said, surprised at how easy it was to laugh now. “She’ll always be with us, I think.”</p><p>Annie smiled softly at him, hesitant but hopeful, and something warm bloomed in his chest. She leaned on him as they swayed to the music. “Can we stay here all night?”</p><p>Finnick smiled, an arm wrapped around her waist. “I’ll be right here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not quite sure how I feel about this one, but I'd love to hear what you all think! Be sure to leave kudos or comment if you enjoyed, and thank you for reading! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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